


the great elf tragedy

by LiberAmans214



Series: SPN Advent Calendar 2020 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Childhood Memories, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Drunk Sam Winchester, Elf puns, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff and Humor, Human Castiel (Supernatural), John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Minor Angst, SPN Advent Calendar 2020, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, TFW fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberAmans214/pseuds/LiberAmans214
Summary: Dude, Iswear.”Dean enters the room to Sam’s laughing voice, and glances around to take note of the occupants. Cas is sitting with his chin in his hands and wide eyes, cross-legged at the edge of one bed (his and Cas’s, Dean guesses), while Sam is sprawled out on the other, pink-cheeked (drunk) and shaking with mirth (drunk again), the storyteller of the evening.The sight makes his stomach drop — kind of — but in a good way,'cause it's his family,and he bites his lip to contain a smile as he puts the dinner on the closest table and goes back to lock the door.It’s been a while since all of them shared a room, but it’s almost Christmas and motels are crowded, so here they are.
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: SPN Advent Calendar 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038195
Comments: 4
Kudos: 120





	the great elf tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> prompts 2 & 3: childhood memories + motels

“Dude, I _swear_.”

Dean enters the room to Sam’s laughing voice, and glances around to take note of the occupants. Cas is sitting with his chin in his hands and wide eyes, cross-legged at the edge of one bed (his and Cas’s, Dean guesses), while Sam is sprawled out on the other, pink-cheeked (drunk) and shaking with mirth (drunk again), the storyteller of the evening.

The sight makes his stomach drop — kind of — but in a good way, and he bites his lip to contain a smile as he puts the dinner on the closest table and goes back to lock the door.

It’s been a while since all of them shared a room, but it’s almost Christmas and motels are crowded, so here they are.

And as much as Dean loves sharing a bed with Cas every night, even if they’re not at the bunker (also, minus the unenviable cost of Sam bitching his ears off about needing brain bleach the _entire_ next day, even if all they did was spoon and Sam’s _obviously_ the one with the problem) — sometimes he misses the three of them just hanging out. And there’s no better place than a shared motelroom for it. Case-free, stuffed with diner foods, and up to absolutely nothing of ‘import’.

“Dean wanted to be Santa _so_ bad.” Sam finishes, and Dean’s pulled back to reality; the one where letting Sam and Cas spend time without him mostly just meant them feeding each other fodder (blackmail, usually for laundry-related situations, or plain, simple annoyance ammunition) about _Dean_.

“That’s fascinating.” Cas says, sounding absolutely delighted, because of course he is.

Dean picks up the food.

“Screw you both.”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas smiles up at him, reaching up with a hand Dean belatedly realizes he’s supposed to take. He does then, blushing, and Cas beams, squeezing as Dean sits down beside him (and starts untying his boots with just one hand because goddammit, he still wants to get his feet under the damn covers) and turning back to Sam. “What happened then?”

Sam gives up on his (failing) attempts to fake-gag effectively, easily ignoring Dean using his not-occupied-in-being-held hand to flip him off, and continues. “Epic things, Cas. So Dean shows up, right, at the audition — or, you know, whatever it was supposed to be, choosing ceremony, christmas cult initiation, _something_ — and there’s all these kids, about his age, but they’re all dressed up in tights, and —”

Dean groans, cutting him off.

He remembers this story.

It had been one of the longest hunts until then, and Dean credits that now to having been just a month away from thirteen — the perfect age, John decided, to leave Sam with him for _days_ without checking in. That’s about when it started to become the norm.

Dad had moved them from a ratty motel to an even rattier, and considerably colder apartment before leaving. One bedroom, one couch (although Deanavoided it with a passion; it was springy, smelled odd, and felt too obviously not theirs, so they ended up living almost entirely in their beds that December) and a kitchen so cold Dean remembers debating with himself if he should just bring the damn plates to the bedside table and call it a day.

God, he’d _hated_ living there.

Way more than he ever did in worn-out, roadside motels with staff you could befriend and most guests (albeit concerned, but) easily persuaded to make conversation. It had felt more deserting, more _abandoned_ , and certainly more alone.

But of course he’d played it up for Sam — the kid was _eight_ for hell’s sake — and the building-wide Christmas gig (weird, for such an otherwise to-each-their-own sorts of people, but semantics didn’t bug Dean at the time, and they don’t bug him now) had seemed like a perfect opportunity to solidify his claims of this being a better place to spend the holiday season, Dad or no Dad.

So he’d decided to be Santa.

(In Dean’s defense, when the building manager had showed up — old, gruff, but not unlike Bobby Singer — he’d told them they could participate in whatever way they wanted to, and shortly after, told them about the Santa Claus & Elves gig.

Probably because he thought Sam (not Dean, right?) might be into something like that.

He’d obviously not anticipated a skinny twelve year old boy would pick up from those informations that he wanted to be _Santa_ , or he would’ve stressed a little more on the options, well, skinny twelve year old boys had.

More specifically, green-pointy-hat and striped-tights-wearing options.)

He sighs.

Dean can tell Sam notices it all coming back to him, because the bastard’s dopey smile widens. (Way too little tolerance for being the size of a friggin’ door, Dean would’ve claimed, but he’s more than familiar with Sam’s eggnog recipe.)

“What’s the matter, Dean?” Sam snorts, clearly pleased with himself for having brought up an embarrassing enough story, _god_ knows how. “Let me finish for Cas, at least, geez. Don’t —”

Dean buries his face in his palm.

“— be _elfish_.”

Cas tilts his head. “I believe you mean selfish, Sam.”

“Oh no,” Sam cackles. “I _really_ don’t.”

*

The night ends soon after a late dinner, with a smug Sam passing out and starting to snore the minute he’s on his pillow (bitch really just played into all ridiculous drunk stereotypes, Dean scoffs) and Dean emerging from the shower to find no Cas in the room, and the door unlocked.

He spots the ex-angel staring at the sky the moment he steps out of their room to look, and joins him, circling an arm around his waist to slide a hand into Cas’s warm pocket, entwining his fingers with the latter’s.

Cas leans into his warmth. It’s midnight. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean presses his lips to Cas’s cheek, just for a second, because they’re not in their room and he isn’t keen to get into a fight at twelve am on Christmas Eve because a random dickhead sees them. “Merry Christmas, babe.”

The air is cold, heavy, but it doesn’t remind Dean of that godawful kitchen — just waking up blanketless, because the love of his life is a sworn-to-denial blanket hog. Similarly, the sky’s speckled with stars, and he can tell it invokes emotions — nostalgia? — in the former angel, but he doesn’t look sad. He just squeezes a little more snug against Dean.

As if in each other, they’ve found ways to forget the pain, the guilt, and the sadness. It’s not just the proximity, not just the heat, but the reassurance, the company and the comfort.

And isn’t that exactly what love’s about?

“So,” Cas gently breaks the quiet, as if he understands that Dean’s thoughts have drifted somewhere. “Santa Claus, huh?”

“Man, I’d even borrowed a _hat_.” Dean grumbles back.

“Don’t elves wear hats too?” Cas teases, mouth quirked in a half-smirk, radiating happiness and fondness, with a hint of pride at probably understanding a relatively human concept, and he sounds so much like himself, and so adorable, and _god_ , Dean loves him.

So he buries his face in Cas’s shoulder, hiding a smile he can’t hold in.

“Okay, screw you too.”


End file.
